A Stray Cat Struts (17 page)

The good thing for story-gathering purposes about this show, like the Carl Perkins special, was that we rehearsed it for two days beforehand and all hung out a lot at the gig in shared dressing rooms. We stayed at the Ritz-Carlton on Central Park South and drove to Brooklyn for the day and back to the city at night. Someone had the room next to Eddie's; we left the doors open between the suites and had a three-day party. The guys all had acoustic guitars, and it was a rare treat to watch Eddie and Brian play together. Lee, who is also an excellent guitar player, impressed Eddie with his ability to fingerpick Chet Atkins–style. It was another one of those times when I was proud of my guys and happy to be the party organizer.

The daytimes were spent in typical hurry-up-and-wait TV show fashion. There were a few dressing rooms below the stage where everyone hung out, swapped stories, and drank a little. Van Halen and I probably hit it a little bit harder than the others. The other Cats were party guys, but not like I was; I would drink in the daytime. I would especially go for it on a gig like this, where we only had to do a song or two. It wasn't a whole gig, and it was a very social setting, and though I tried not to get wasted before the show, I would try to keep a little glow going. I still looked at cats like Waylon Jennings as my elders and didn't imagine them partying too much. Again, my naïveté of the time is revealed in the light of modern day where we find out that those outlaw country guys partied more than anyone. They never said they didn't, but the substance use and struggles of Nashville-based country music artists didn't get as much media attention as someone like Keith Richards getting busted did. When it did, it was portrayed in a more sympathetic, everyman, blue-collar way. The general American public wanted to think that the country artists were different from the rock and rollers and didn't want to believe that all musicians, regardless of genre, behave more or less in the same way. It's all showbiz. I've since learned that the cast of the Grand Ole Opry had as much sex, drugs, and rock and roll as Led Zeppelin, the main difference being the volume of the drums on the records.

Les Paul is one of the unifying cats. Everyone can agree that without his invention of the electric guitar, the whole music business and the evolution of rock and roll would've turned out very differently. He was a mad scientist with electronics and also helped revolutionize the recording process with his improvements and use of multi-tracking on tape. I'm not a guitar player or recording engineer, so I don't know the lingo or science of it, but I know that our entire game would not have turned out the same without Les Paul and his tireless quest for innovation.

I developed a connection with him, and I would get a call every few years to be the drummer on some event he was doing. I first met Les Paul when the Cats were the backing band on a big tribute to him in 1989. Again, it was a case of me just being open and honest with the guy, asking all the questions and being willing to sit for the in-depth answers.

A few years after this one, I got the call to be the drummer on a similar documentary about Les for
The History of Rock 'n' Roll
TV series. That one was filmed at the House of Blues on Sunset Boulevard and featured another cavalcade of guitar heroes, including fellow Long Islander and buddy Steve Vai, the Stray Cats' producer, longtime friend, and collaborator Dave Edmunds, good buddy and true rock star Slash, legendary singer/guitar player and former occasional party bud Stephen Stills, and true pal and my big brother Jeffrey “Skunk” Baxter. Jeffrey played bass on that show, and we were the rhythm section for these amazing players. We rehearsed all day and played all night for the part of the documentary featuring the electric guitar and Les's contribution. True pal Jerry Schilling was one of the producers of the series. This was a special night, and a small clip was included in the TV show, but the whole gig must exist somewhere on film. I remember an incident from this day where I had to get really tough with a waiter at the House of Blues when he wouldn't bring Les a bowl of soup. He needed the soup to take along with his medicine. There was no one else around to help him, and the waiter was being that awful type of restaurant stickler regarding the times for a certain item on the menu to be served. If I was able to get tough with him, he must have been a wimp, anyway. I told this waiter that this was the inventor of the electric guitar, that none of us would have a job without him, and the old boy needed a bowl of goddamned soup right away to take his medicine or there would be no show that night. This old guy might pass out if he didn't take his medicine, and if that happened, I was going to break the bowl over his head. The waiter brought the soup. This was somewhere between 1995 and 1996; sometimes these things come out a little while after they were filmed. After the gig, I tend to forget about them until I'm shown the end result, sometimes years later. Either way, I was definitely sober by then, but I enjoyed a good time and photo ops just the same.

I've never failed to have a good time at something like this. In last twenty-five years, I haven't let sobriety get in the way of a fun time or story. I loved to drink and do the occasional powder, but the older I've gotten, the happier I am to have quit partying when I did. It's hard, like anything else, in the beginning, but once you get the hang of the whole thing, it becomes your new reality and does make life much easier. If anything, I've learned to appreciate the moment and enjoy more the position of being viewed as an equal among all these cats whom I respect and admire. Maybe I used the booze to hide behind. It's possible; there is psychology to everything. I do know that I just plain loved it while it worked. When you're in your twenties and look a little tipsy in a photo, it's cool and cute in a rock-and-roll way. If you're blasted in a backstage photo in your forties or fifties, it's just plain sad. That goes double for any hard drugs. A rock-and-roll guy past the age of thirty who's obviously wired or nodding off is one of the saddest of all sights. That “rock till you drop” part of rock and roll is a young man's game. I've yet to meet anyone, not even the most legendary partyers, some of whom I've been privileged enough to hang with, who can carry on that way forever. It catches up to everyone. At some point, you must adjust. Look at any of the classic rock-and-roll guys and gals that are still doing quality work, and I think you'll see that no one can keep up the old pace of partying and still turn in good performances and records. The recovery time is longer and harder. Some do it better than others, and some are better at maintaining a certain image, but no one can keep up the old pace and carry on unaffected. I've done the personal research and tried every way and combination, but in the end, it was easier to bow out and keep my wits about me. Fortunately, for posterity, I've gathered a good thick mental journal of party remembrances with some of the greats and can remember enough to entertain the troops. Lucky me; a bunch of cats and a few true pals didn't make it far enough to figure this out.

Back at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, there was the usual chaos of filming a show, and everyone was hanging out in the dressing room waiting to be called to the stage for their numbers. I was making small talk with B.B. King. The man was a living Buddha. He really does bring that larger-than-life aura wherever he goes. In both a physical and cerebral way, he is truly a big man. He really is that guy, the living embodiment of the American blues.

He was very friendly. We were chatting away, and he was happily telling me stories of touring in a converted school bus in the 1950s and knowing Elvis in Memphis. There was a graceful motion to his gestures and way of speaking. Everything he said sounded like there was a life-learned, firsthand wisdom attached to it.

I asked him where he lived these days. “I live in Las Vegas, son.” He answered in a polite way, but like it was a question with an obvious answer. Where else would B.B. King live? It made complete sense. I understood when he said it.

Since we were all sharing the digs, everyone had clothes on racks and suitcases in the dressing room. There was a flight case with
B.B. KING
stenciled on it, with his wardrobe inside. It was open, and I of course looked in. He had ten matching safari-style suits on hangers. They looked like 1970s barber suits with big hip pockets. He had one in peach, one in baby blue, one in lime green, one in white, one in lavender, and so on. He had five pairs of highly shined black patent leather shoes in a rack at the bottom of the case. It was perfect, exactly what you'd expect and want to see in B.B. King's wardrobe case.

I wandered over to the girls' dressing room to say hello to Rita Coolidge. Rita is a super-talented country pop songbird. She was in Delaney & Bonnie's legendary band, was married to Kris Kristofferson in the 1970s and 1980s, and had some hits on her own. She was close with Les, too. We had been friends for a few years, as she was our neighbor in Birdland, up on the hill above Sunset. Her then boyfriend and drummer, Tom Mooney, was my buddy, and we all hung out a lot. I'd go over in the afternoons. We'd smoke a joint, drink a beer, listen to records, and watch TV. Rita had been around many of the historic moments of rock-and-roll history. She introduced me to Miss Jessi Colter, who was Waylon Jennings's wife. Waylon is an imposing dude. He was in Buddy Holly's band on the night of the fateful plane crash and was the balladeer on the
Dukes of Hazzard
's theme song, “Good Ol' Boys.” I was a fan. Miss Jessi was a very cool woman who looked, acted, and dressed the part of the classic country singer gal. Of course, the other Cats busted my balls and said she was flirting with me and kept threatening to tell Waylon that I was trying to make time with his wife. It was a typical example of intra–Stray Cats band practical joking. During one rehearsal, Waylon and Miss Jessi were walking in front of us from the dressing rooms to the stage, and we all did the classic “Hello Cleveland” thing where you get lost on the way to the stage. We just followed them, so we're all lost together. Waylon kept yelling, “Left! Left! Left!” and after a few more wrong turns, we were still lost. He looked over at us and said gruffly in an apologetic way, “She don't do lefts.”

He asked Miss Jessi which way to go, and she answered that she didn't know. When we all accidentally found the stage and were waiting at the bottom of the steps to go up, Waylon motioned toward his wife and said loud enough for us all to hear, “Goddamn it, woman! I done the drugs, and she got the brain damage!”

She shrugged and smiled, then we all smiled. I got the feeling that this was how they were with each other and it wasn't a mean-spirited thing. We walked up behind them and watched their number with Les from the side of the stage. I think we did a song with Les and then served as the backing band for the big finale, which was a version of “Blue Suede Shoes.” We played the song, and one by one Brian called the guests, and they came up and started playing until it was one giant guitar solo. It's always struck me that the world's twenty best musicians sound an awful lot like the world's twenty worst musicians when they play at the same time. Sometimes the version of the show that is on the official release is not exactly what you did on the day; there were also two days of rehearsals that weren't filmed and aren't on the existing tape. There are usually a few things that for time purposes don't make the final cut, and maybe the sequence is a little different, but this encore section was a one-off.

During the day of filming, there was the usual hectic atmosphere around the theater. More people, more cameras, the press, personal guests, and the live audience all lent to the excitement of the show day. The show was running smoothly enough. I decided to use the gents' one last time before the encore section, where I tried to provide the backbeat to a bunch of the world's best guitarists, who were all plugged in at various volumes, with my usual, simple drum kit.

I was at the urinal thinking about the gig and staring straight ahead. B.B. King was standing behind me, in front of mirror at the sink, using an Afro pick on his hair, humming to himself.

“Stray Cats to the stage!” comes over the little squawk box speakers in the bathroom. I was startled; I hurriedly finished up and zipped up. I went to the sink to wash up and give my hair a final check when I saw the stain on my pants.

“Goddamn it, look at this!” I said in an overtly upset way. “What am I going to do?” I asked myself out loud.

“Stray Cats to the stage!” came over the speakers again, echoing a little off the tiles.

Now I was in a slight panic. “Can you believe this?” I asked to the almost empty room.

I now noticed the serene B.B. King watching me in the mirror.

“Don't worry about it, son. It lets the people know you're human,” he offered me in a completely calm and matter-of-fact way.

It was maybe the wisest and truest thing I'd ever heard.

I thought about it for two seconds, nodded to him, and said, “Thanks.” I went out and did my thing. B.B. was the second guitar player to join in the jam after Eddie. His single-note style and clean, piercing sound is, of course, immediately recognizable and unmistakable.

Every man alive has had a similar experience. It's happened to me many times since, but thanks to the sage words of an American treasure, I can honestly say that it has never upset me again.

 

13

Bird

I had a short-lived career as a movie star. As has been my good fortune, I worked with the best. I must be the only guy to have ever done one movie where my scenes were acted with and directed by Oscar winners. Any movie buffs and trivia maniacs out there are welcome to try to correct me on this one. Looking back, I see it might have been a thing to capitalize on, but I've never been good at that. In this circumstance, I went out on top.

Britt was about eight months pregnant with TJ, and all was pretty normal around Doheny Drive. We were somehow paying the bills and living the continued life of relative luxury in a hand-to-mouth fashion. I don't think I had a manager at the time, but somehow a call came in from the last agent that the Stray Cats had worked with. I was told it was an audition for an acting role. I had never done anything like this before, but having been on a hundred shoots with Britt, I was familiar with movie sets and the general setup—though not the actual job of acting. I went to some outer office in a trailer on one of the movie lots—maybe Universal? I had been faxed a few pages of dialogue and practiced it with her a few times. I didn't take the whole thing too seriously. Everyone said to go do it, so I did. The casting people must've liked it, because I got a message with call times and a location for the next week.